


to Waistcoat or Not to Waistcoat, that is Question

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clothes, M/M, Meet-Cute, tailor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 12:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14165364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: for a prompt aaages ago on tumblr, I just cleaned it up a bitwould it be possible to have designer/tailor Athos, and trans Porthos (chubby or non-chubby, love either) coming in to be fitted for a suit, but is anxious because it is his first outing since his surgery, and Athos is super lovely and reassuring. maybe they both turn up to the same event and spend the entire evening together talking/enjoying each other’s company? bonus if Treville is in there somewhere. please? :)





	to Waistcoat or Not to Waistcoat, that is Question

**Author's Note:**

> Someone prompted this on tumblr but I haven't written who and can't recall sorry. It's a great prompt :)

Athos hates his job. He likes half his job, the cutting and piecing together and making up, the stitching, the fabrics, the learning. It’s just that you’re not, apparently, allowed to treat people the same as you treat the dressform. His last client suggested he go into acupuncture. It was only one prick, and the bugger had been really move-y. Athos is still sulking about that, a little. He’s been paid and the man plus suit has left. His little shop is empty, so he’s sulking into his coffee. When the nice person walks in off the street, in joggers and a bulky jumper, he glares. By accident, but it’s quite a glare and the person falters.

 

“Can I help?” Athos asks, trying a smile. He’s not great at smiles, his lip twists and turns it into more of a smirk, most of the time. He needs the custom, though, so he goes for it. 

 

“Oh, yeah, I think so? I’m, well, I guess I want a suit? Or a shirt, maybe, or jacket, or… not sure, really, depends how much things are.”

 

Athos gets up and shows off the ready made suits, talking about the different cuts and lines, the two-piece or three, the collars and cuffs and neckline. His customer follows him, head bent to listen, nodding carefully along and stopping him to ask questions. Athos is pleased by the interest, and goes into detail about how he cuts the fabric and what he chooses, and colours. 

 

“Would you like a cup of tea? I’ll show you my prices,” Athos says , realising he’s talked for a really long time. 

 

“Please. I’m Porthos, by the way.”

 

“Athos.”

 

“Oh! It’s your name, on the shop?”

 

“Yes. Do you take milk, sugar?”

 

Athos clears a space at the counter, and indicates Porthos should sit, then he goes to make tea. He finds a note-book, and sits with Porthos. 

 

“Tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll tell you a bit about prices and options,” Athos says. 

 

“I want something that’ll make me… I want to look,” Porthos stops, shaking his head, grimacing. Athos waits. “I mean I’m here because… oh fuck it.”

 

Porthos pulls his phone out, and Athos raises an eyebrow, wondering. Porthos holds out the phone, and it starts talking, in a mechanical voice. Athos smiles. 

 

“I’m transgender, and I’d like to look more masculine. I had top surgery and want to do something to feel good about myself, and I thought getting a nice suit would be good.”

 

“A nice suit is always good,” Athos agrees. “Did you have any ideas about what sort would be nice?”

 

“I liked, um, I liked the one,” Porthos stops again and taps at his phone. Athos waits for the mechanical voice. “I’d like to accentuate my shoulders and draw attention away from my waist. And my waist line. My stomach. My fat.”

 

Athos nods. He gets some ready-mades to show Porthos the different styles again, realising he’s going to need a lot more input. 

 

“I think easygoing cut, for the trousers. If I give you a cuff, it’ll break up the vertical lines, but without it might stretch you out, make you a bit taller. You’ve already got plenty of height, though,” Athos says, after they’ve gone through a bit. 

 

“But I’m fat. Will it make me slimmer? Without a cuff?”

 

Athos shrugs, and makes a note to cut the trousers long enough for a cuff, to decide later. Porthos has tried both on, and hadn’t wanted to choose. Athos can afford to do it without charging for the material. 

 

“Okay. Let’s look at shirts.”

 

“How much is this going to cost me? Ball-park.”

 

“Couple of hundred,” Athos admits. “Depends on what we choose in terms of fabric, and what styles you like. I… I’m queer, and I like the idea of being able to help you.”

 

“Okay. What does that mean exactly?”

 

“It means, let’s see what you like, what kind of thing you want, and then we’ll look at fitting it to a budget,” Athos says. “If I know what your ideal suit looks like, I can think about substitutions to keep the price down. So I’m going to show you things that will most definitely be out of your budget, but don’t worry. If in the end you decide you can’t afford anything except a cheap marks and sparks ready made, and I get no commission, I’m happy with that. I’m going to try and help you, not try and make a sale. Now. Shirts.”

 

“I guess a white one?”

 

Athos laughs, then realises Porthos isn’t joking. He shows Porthos how the point collar will elongate his face, how the spread collar does the opposite, about turndowns and wings, pins and tabs. He shows Porthos the point collar and they examine angles for a while, then have a debate about cuffs. Porthos is at once attracted to french cuffs, and while Athos tries to talk him into single button cuffs because he has a personal vendetta against cufflinks because they always get lost, he doesn’t win. 

 

“Cufflinks,” Porthos murmurs, holding a french cuff to his wrist, grinning at it. 

 

Athos is faintly, embarrassingly, charmed, and gives in, making a note of it.

 

“Do you want a waistcoat?” Athos asks, smiling, fingering the cloth of one. “I like wearing them. Queer fashion is awfully fond of the waistcoat. It does tend to advertise, to an extent, of course. There is something terribly queer about a waistcoat.”

 

Athos rather likes that particular thing about waistcoats, and is incredibly fond of them himself for that reason. He likes the subtle mark of it, the way wearing it makes him feel part of a tradition. Porthos shakes his head, though. 

 

“I like ‘em, but I want the suit to be really masculine.”

 

Athos moves right on to jackets, instead. He shows Porthos how the double breasted jacket will thicken him out, but possibly draw attention to his middle, and Porthos at once decides on single breasted. Athos talks him into a natural shoulder, though Porthos wants to add excessive amounts of padding. Athos makes a note to make the slant angle very gentle and make the line sharp to accentuate the shoulders. He chooses three buttons, to draw attention from the waist, and makes a note to add just a little room there, to keep it from cinching tight. 

 

They go back to the table, and Athos goes through fabrics and patterns, then starts talking about prices. It takes them an hour to get a good idea of what Porthos wants and can fit into his budget. He chooses classic lines and fabrics, and Athos makes some sketches to show Porthos the way the lines of the lapels and collar will draw the eye to the face and shoulders, away from the waist and stomach. So far, Athos has managed to avoid asking Porthos to take off any clothes. He’s suggested it once or twice, to try things out, but Porthos had always just held the clothes up to himself. 

 

“I’m going to need to measure you,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos nods, but his arms go tight around himself and he tucks his head down against his breast. Athos had expected that but the glint of tears is surprising. Athos remembers being a scrawny, ungainly teenager, and knows how to hate himself. He softens, walking around the desk to lean, closer to Porthos. 

 

“I do it all in the back, no one’ll see. I’m not going to ask you to take all your clothes off. Are you wearing a vest?” Athos asks. Porthos nods. “That’ll do fine. Are you alright being touched?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just, I only did the surgery really recent, and everything’s sore, and I just… I hate all of my body, right now. I hate it.”

 

“I know,” Athos says. “You’re allowed to. If it helps, I think you look fine. I see hundreds of bodies, and body types. I make money on the side doing fashion illustration, so I spend a fair bit of time doing life drawing, to keep my hand in. Many, many naked bodies. There’s something about drawing that makes people beautiful, that helps you see bodies in a different light. The media bombards us with this one figure, this one way of looking. It sexualises everything. But life drawing, sketching, art? It does the opposite. It turns bodies into what they are. Flesh and blood and anatomy.”

 

Porthos scrubs his face, sniffing, and gives a decisive nod. Athos leads him to the back room, and Porthos stops, gaping. Athos looks around. His work table’s out here, the space is bigger than he’d like to fit it. He’s always wanted a third room, for fittings, but he likes these premises. Porthos takes a tentative step to the table, then to the dummy that has a jacket pinned. Aramis’ ridiculous pink shirt is on the other dummy, with the giant flapping lapels, and they’ve put up flags for pride month. There’s a photo of Aramis and d’Artagnan, set up by Aramis’ computer work space, Aramis giving him a thorough snog. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, gaze settling finally on the photograph. 

 

He takes his jumper off, and then a shirt, and then a t-shirt. Down to his vest, he looks suddenly vulnerable. Athos can see the slimness of his waist, the plumpness of his belly, his hips. 

 

“You might need to take the joggers off, too,” Athos says. “Not if you’re not comfortable with it, but I’ll have to do something with all that fabric. Those look about six sizes too big.”

 

“Yeah. They’re comforting,” Porthos mutters, stepping out of them. His boxers have little TARDISes on and Athos is once again charmed. 

 

He shows Porthos where to stand and gets a tape measure. He’s quick, he’s done this so often he can do it in ten minutes but once Porthos is down to his skivvies he loses his inhibitions, a little. He laughs, when Athos is done, and gives Athos a rueful look, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. 

 

“Getting used to it. Every step, I feel like I’m further away from being, um, a woman. Think I’ll feel more like me, like a bloke, but every step I’m still just me. Still not quite… still just nothing,” Porthos whispers. “I want an outside that matches me. I can’t get me body right, it won’t go. So I thought a suit, right? A shell. Not really been out much. Since. I’m babbling. I’m so nervous someone’ll see. With a jacket, that’s gonna hide it. I can wear a vest under my shirt. No one’ll notice.”

 

“No one will notice,” Athos agrees. “Now that I’ve got you here, would you try a few things on?”

 

Porthos nods, and Athos hurries back to the shop to grab an armful of shirts and trousers and jackets, different styles and lengths that fit with what they’ve come up with so far. Porthos shows an annoying habit of shying away from colour, so Athos goes to get more colours, and just inundates him until he gets used to it. Then he scales it back to splashes and dashes until they find a good mix. 

 

“Right. Let me get a quick sketch of you?” Athos asks, already using a pencil to fill in the basic lines he’s already got, adding details that will help him later; things Porthos wants accentuated, colours and tones, where the shadows and light fall. 

 

“Do I owe you anything?” Porthos asks, pulling his clothes back on.

 

“I take a deposit. You come back for a fitting, in a week. I’ll have a design, then. If you want it bespoke, made from scratch, it’ll be much more pricey, but I kind of want to do it so I’m likely to offer you a huge discount. Otherwise I’ll just find things ready made that I can adapt.”

 

“Bespoke,” Porthos whispers, then grins, laughing. “Yeah, go on then. I’ll splash out, eh?”

 

Athos nods, and takes Porthos back through to the shop, calculating a deposit, and giving Porthos a proper ballpark figure for how much it’s going to cost. Porthos’ eyes widen, so Athos knocks another hundred off, which relaxes him a bit. It’s in his budget, so Athos doesn’t feel bad. 

 

“How long have you been saving this for?” Athos asks, taking the cash deposit Porthos hands over, sliding it into an envelope to lock up. He writes out a receipt. 

 

“I had it to get the surgery done, if I didn’t get up the list,” Porthos says. “NHS did it, though, so I didn’t need it. I’ve been saving it up since I was seventeen. Never quite got enough for the surgery. Enough for a good suit, though.”

 

“When on earth will you wear this?” Athos asks, handing over the paperwork and showing Porthos where to sign. 

 

“Dunno,” Porthos says, beaming. “Work? Yeah, I’ll wear it to work a couple of times. To go shopping. It’ll get me in places, right? I can browse Harrods and pretend to be posh.”

 

Athos nods, and they’re done. They shake hands, and Porthos goes on his way whistling. 

 

**

 

The next bit is the bit Athos doesn’t like. It involves Porthos standing still while Athos drapes the tacked material over him and pins, stitches, darts and folds it into shape. It’s the form, so he doesn’t have to be careful. He goes wild with his scissors and pins. Porthos is a good dummy, standing very still and not bothering to try and make conversation, after Athos answers in grunts the first few times. Once Athos has him in trousers and shirt he stands back and looks him over critically. 

 

“If I switch this cotton to a higher thread-count, would you mind?” Athos asks. “It’ll add a bit to the cost. I can’t just knock it off because it’s got to be from a different fabric, which is a set price. It’ll be softer and lighter and take away that stiff look a bit. It’ll cling a little more, drape better.”

 

“How much more?”

 

Athos shrugs and goes to find the fabric, showing Porthos the difference between it and the other cotton. Porthos ends up agreeing which pleases Athos. The jacket is quick and easy. Athos already made a few style choices and substitutions, turning it into something he thinks will flatter Porthos. It does and Porthos turns in the mirror, whistling. 

 

Athos tuts and holds him still so he can finish pinning. Porthos is less still, after this long, and Athos manages to prick him twice. Porthos doesn’t seem to care, though. He keeps on shifting and twisting, trying to get a look at himself. Athos’ patience thins until he’s sure his mouth is a grim line and he’s scowling as he tries to pin the cuff on the trousers to a better length. 

 

“Stop moving,” Athos demands, glaring up at Porthos. 

 

Porthos just beams down at him, jiggling on the spot in excitement. Athos sighs and gives up. It’s mostly there. He removes it from Porthos, who pouts but Athos barely notices, too busy making notes and gathering the new fabrics he’s decided on. He waves Porthos away, with a receipt and appointment for another fitting the next week. 

 

He has three commissions right now and he’s too busy to do much on Porthos’. He passes it off to Aramis once he’s done the cutting, to baste it together and check the fall on the dummy. Aramis is trying to design something frivolous but Athos grumps until he does his proper work. They exchange two alterations, so Aramis can have fun with the camp, excitable, colourful woman who wants eccentric tucks and darts. Athos gets the nice conservative rich arse who just wants his old suit fitted properly now he’s lost weight. His losing weight features heavily in the conversations. Athos pricks him often and by accident, but mostly on purpose. 

 

He does check Porthos’ order the night before, unpicking some of Aramis’ less careful work. It’s not Aramis, it’s Athos, because he can only put so much detail in a sketch and outline. The fact that Porthos has a particular, tiny tilt to the way his stomach sits, that Athos has offset with a nice piece of stitching in the shirt, is such a small detail and only really visible in the less-than-flattering life drawings Athos has done of Porthos, which he never ever shares with anyone. Certainly not the client. The ones that accentuate things Athos knows the client doesn’t like, that highlights little quirks, that show the way the client sees themselves (which is never flattering). 

 

Porthos is early for his fitting and Aramis is still there, singing loudly and off key about the bar wench he left in Portsmouth. Porthos strides in, opens his mouth, then tilts his head and listens before bursting out laughing and joining rowdily in. Athos goes to put the kettle on. Aramis is usually absent for Athos’ fittings and Athos for Aramis’. They share the space, and while Athos is technically in charge, Aramis does his own thing a lot of the time. Constance does sewing for them sometimes, when she needs the hours or they need the help, but otherwise it’s just them. 

 

“Ath! I’m off! Get a move on,” Aramis says, poking his head into the kitchen. 

 

Athos finishes pouring out the tea and takes it through, offering a cup to Porthos. Porthos, sprawled comfortably in a chair, accepts the tea with a ‘cheers’ and closes his eyes around the first sip, melting further into his seat. Aramis gathers his stuff in the whirlwind that is him, and then he’s gone, banging the door. Athos can hear him singing as he goes. 

 

“I’m fucking sad, today,” Porthos says. “Probably gonna come through in my body language, so have a warning.”

 

“We’ve got this mostly put together. Let’s get it adjusted, then I’ll get it sewn properly. Then there’ll be the last fitting, which I can do earlier than next week if there’s not much to adjust today.”

 

Porthos gets to his feet. He’s hesitant about getting undressed so Athos turns to give him privacy. He putters with paper on the table while he waits. Porthos is indeed holding himself awkwardly, when he’s dressed. Athos had always known that about Porthos, though. It’s in his sketches. He’s worked around both the relaxed, confident Porthos, and this uncertain one. He’s worked out how his body changes. 

 

“Looks good,” he says softly, and points Porthos to the mirrors. 

 

Porthos gapes at himself, and his bearing changes visibly as he examines himself in the glass, turning this way and that. Athos smiles and adjusts the way the jacket sits on Porthos’ shoulders, tugging so the line of the shirt is right. Porthos stares at him. 

 

“Wow,” he croaks, at last.

 

“I’ll get pinning, then,” Athos says, embarrassed by Porthos’ reaction, and his own reaction to Porthos’ reaction. 

 

There’s something so vulnerable and yet so invulnerable about Porthos. Porthos isn’t embarrassed by the way he thinks about his body. He’s not embarrassed about being fat, or feeling bad about himself, or the shame he clearly still has from what Athos supposes is dysphoria. He’s upfront and happy. He’s not delicate. What vulnerability he shares, he shares willingly. Athos clears his throat and gets his pins. 

 

Porthos is not at all still today. Athos pokes him and prods him and grips his shoulder to keep him still. It’s actually useful to know, because it changes the way Athos wants to stitch the shirt; it’s going to need a little more give and to be tailored closer to Porthos’ body so it moves with him, so his movements shift the drape and fall of the cotton. It also makes him let the trousers out a little because if Porthos is going to be wriggling like that on a daily basis he’s going to be showing six inches of ankle without the adjustment. 

 

“You need awesome socks,” Athos mutters, re-pinning the trousers. 

 

“What? I have awesome socks,” Porthos says, tugging the trouser-leg out of Athos’ hand to reveal his shin. 

 

His socks are minion socks. Athos groans, and pulls the trousers down to hide the hideous little things. He tells Porthos off absently, demanding his stillness for five minutes. Then he has to talk Porthos out of the clothes. Porthos wants to waltz off in them right then and there, pins or no pins. Athos has little patience at the best of times. He’s been good, with Porthos, because he’s endearing, but he loses that patience and snaps, which makes Porthos go all bashful. Porthos is embarrassed about  _ that _ . What exactly, the annoyance or the noise or the fuss, Athos doesn’t know. Something makes him flush hot, though. He scrambles out of the suit and stands in his vest and boxers, looking around hurriedly for his other clothes. Athos hands them over. 

 

“Sorry,” Athos says. “I’m used to working with Roger.”

 

“Oh. Is he still and quiet?” Porthos asks, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

 

Athos snorts and indicates his dressform. Porthos looks confused, then laughs, going over and pretending to shake Roger’s hand. Athos doesn’t really think of it as Roger much but it’s what he’s called him mannequins since uni and it slips out now and then. It cheers Porthos up, so Athos can’t regret it. He does the sewing over the next three days, finishing off another of his commissions, two designs he’s been asked to put together, and an alteration. He spends his evenings working on a series of illustrations for one of the designers he regularly works with who hates doing her own drawing. Porthos returns on a Monday, gets out of his clothes at once. 

 

He hesitates, then takes off his vest, too. There’s lurid scarring and marks on his chest, and there are gauze pads taped over his nipples. Athos tries not to stare. 

 

“I did the shirt to be worn over a vest,” Athos says. “You seemed most comfortable that way. It should be fine without though. We could check?”

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, plucking the shirt from Athos and getting it on, doing the buttons quick as lightning, fingers agile. 

 

He stands in front of the mirror in just his pants (strawberry-patterned today) and the shirt, gazing at himself, moving closer and further away, gently touching his fingers to the places Athos thinks are the scarred areas. 

 

“You can’t see anything,” Athos assures. “This room is lit for art, for display. The light is natural and bright. If you can’t see in here, you won’t out there.”

 

Porthos nods and turns, wordlessly asking something. Athos examines him carefully, looking for places the shirt shows what’s underneath. He’s already worked the fabric to hide it but he checks his work minutely, scrutinizing it for any marks, anything that might make people take a second look. 

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says, when Athos hands him the trousers. 

 

Athos nods and watches Porthos dress. He shows Porthos how to settle the clothes for the best hang of the fabric, how his movements impact the cloth. Porthos wriggles around in front of the mirrors laughing for a while, then stills, staring at himself. 

 

“God, look at me,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos blushes, because he’d been doing just that. Looking at Porthos. At the joy on his face, the lightness in his eyes. At the width of his strong shoulders. At the press of his muscles against the shirt. At the way his legs are shown off by the trousers. The cut of the jacket leading the eye up to the face again. Athos looks away and fusses with the paperwork. 

 

“I don’t think I need to make any adjustment,” Athos says. “I’ll finish off, tidy it up, and it’ll be ready to collect by Friday.”

 

Porthos makes no move to take it off. Athos doesn’t push him, this time. He examines his work, too, making sure and surer. He’ll check the stitching and lining tonight, after Porthos goes, making sure everything’s done to the highest quality. Then he leaves Porthos alone and finish up his illustration work. 

 

**

 

Athos hates Aramis. He really hates Aramis. It’ll be good for business, Aramis said. It’s an investment, Aramis said. It’s a great client base, Aramis said. And Athos had given in and told Aramis to buy a ticket on expenses. And here Athos is, with said-ticket, Aramis having shoved it into his hand with a very insincere apology before scarpering to spend a surprise weekend in Madrid with d’Artagnan. Athos hates Aramis, because more than he hates Aramis, he hates formal events. He’s not bad at them, he has the upbringing and manners to do fine at schmoozing. He’s not even sad about the cause. A ball raising money for LGBT+ youth charities is a great idea. It’s just that he doesn’t really want to be there. It’s going to be all people and small talk and everyone trying to get each others’ business. Like sharks. Athos sighs. 

 

He puts himself together an outfit at the shop. Half the things are tailored to him or Aramis. They are after all the most readily available bodies. He decides on conservative charcoal but with a burgundy shirt. He adds a waistcoat, too, because nothing quite makes him smile like a waistcoat. He pulls his hair back off his face, gathers his things, and leaves the shop. He’s late. Fashionably late but still late and accidentally late which isn’t fashionable at all. The hall is busy. His ticket gets him in and his business card gets him quick service at the bar, after someone much more important says something loud about his partner wearing ‘all Athos, nothing but Athos, he adores his tailor’. Athos accepts his whiskey, stakes out his corner and perches, scanning the room, making a mental list of people to approach. Before he can approach anyone he’s approached himself. Someone older than himself, with greying hair and a neat beard. And a terrible suit. Athos holds out his hand and absently listens to the introduction: Jean Treville, one of the charity reps, something about young people and sports. Athos wonders why he’s been approached until Treville gets a particular look in his eye and starts talking about one of his charges who has an interest in fashion. 

 

“Sir, I would be happy to help but I run a tiny business. Tailoring. Not fashion. We have no space for work experience, nothing set up. It would do neither of us any good,” Athos says. “He’d be welcome to come work in the shop for a day, make us tea, observe, but that’s as much as I can offer.”

 

“That would be a start, that would be great,” Treville says, beaming. 

 

Athos is a bit bemused by his enthusiasm for such a poor offer and wonders how many people Treville’s already tried. He’s wondering if he can offer anything better when he catches sight of someone beyond Treville’s shoulder, approaching. He recognises the suit, first, which he supposes says everything about him. Then his eyes find Porthos’ face and he finds himself smiling in welcome. 

 

“I’ve got three cards for Shelly, sir. I don’t think anyone’s going to accept her though. Why on earth does she want to do work experience in the financial sector? That’s a terrible sector,” Porthos says. He spots Athos, and grins. “Oh no, look! Snap! We wore the same designer, how embarrassing!”

 

Athos laughs politely at the joke and turns to the bar to order Porthos a whiskey. He shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Porthos does charity things. He’s that sort of person. When he turns back with a tumbler, Porthos is watching him, an uncertain, worried look in place. Treville is glaring at Athos, body language tense and defensive. 

 

“Whiskey,” Athos explains, holding it out. Porthos beams at him and accepts the drink, perching himself next to Athos. 

 

“Oh, hey, did you ask Athos? About Maxxie?” Porthos says. “Maxxie wants to be a tailor. He has a thing about waistcoats, like you.”

 

“I don’t have a thing,” Athos says quietly, flushing.

 

“You two know each other?” Treville asks. “Oh my God, you didn’t. Porthos! Do you have any idea how much it costs to get a suit tailored? I knew that couldn’t have come from Tesco!”

 

“Tesco?” Athos asks, affronted that Porthos might think they’d make something of the same quality in Tesco. 

 

“I got it done from scratch,” Porthos says, chin coming up, like a stubborn child who knows he’s about to be in trouble. “What else was I gonna do with that money, captain?”

 

“Save it? Buy a puppy? Get a mortgage? Pay off a loan? Pay me back?” Treville suggests, ticking them off on his fingers. 

 

“I only owe you a hundred,” Porthos says. “You can have that if you like. Anyway, Athos was ridiculous and cut the price a load.”

 

“I’m not ridiculous,” Athos says. “Don’t drag me into this strange argument with your boss.”

 

“My boss? Ha! Treville ain’t my boss. He’s my honorary Dad. Now, I can spend me money as I like. I like this suit.”

 

“So do I,” Treville admits. “Alright, fine. Talk him into letting Maxxie in, I’ll see if I can find any more placements.”

 

Treville wanders off, leaving Porthos and Athos to their whiskey. 

 

“It’s work experience season,” Porthos says. “Cap spends his time trying to get the kids in places where their sexuality or gender won’t be an issue, where they can be open. He looks for employers who are good on mental health, too. It’s not his job but the kids look to him as a mentor, and he goes all out.”

 

“He seems like a good man,” Athos says. “I already said Maxxie could come for a day, observe. Treville said fashion, not tailoring. I’m more willing to work something out if Maxxie’s genuinely wanting to be a tailor. Um, pronouns?”

 

“He and his. Thanks for asking. Wait, did you mean Max? Because if you meant me, way delayed man.”

 

“I meant Max. I never thought to ask you, wrong context.”

 

“He and his, for me too. You?”

 

“Same. I think I could probably offer Maxxie a few days, how many does it need to be? Five? It won’t be for a couple of months, though. I’d have to work out with Aramis what we could have him doing, and sort paperwork, and look into agreements.”

 

“Great, that’ll be fine. Did Treville give you a card? Awesome. I actually had an idea, by the way. About you, and me, and tailoring. You said… you said you wanted to help me and that consultation thing we did the first day, you’d do it even if I didn’t buy anything.”

 

“Yes. Usually not, but yeah, I was willing.”

 

“That was pretty awesome. The consultation. Learning about cut and drape and hang and fabric and lines and things. How to accentuate and highlight bits of me. It’d be real useful to a lot of trans people I know.”

 

“Tell me where you’re going with this.”

 

“Offer it. As a charity thing. I ran a charity for years; if you offer it on a voluntary basis, in terms of time, I can find someone who’ll work with you, in terms of promotion and recommendation. I know three charities who work with queer fashion specifically and I know several blogs. Instagrammers and people in queer fashion. Part of the thing could be optional photographs and features online. Things like that. It’d promote you as well as being awesome.”

 

“I’m willing to consider it,” Athos says. “I’ll think about it.”

 

Porthos beams at him and launches into a long story about his own fashion and clothes and they chat for a while about fashion, drinking whiskey.. Athos finds himself amused and entertained. He tells a story about a fabric order where he accidentally ordered some twill for shirts with a bright pink flamingo pattern on it and Porthos laughs, head back, nearly spilling his whiskey in his enthusiasm. He sets the drink aside, the better to laugh, and Athos finds himself charmed again.

 

“You ridiculous, endearing man,” he mutters, and then realises he said it out loud, and realises that he must have had more whiskey than he’d realised. He blushes, heat creeping up his neck and over his face. “Aramis is going to kill me if he realises I just sat in a corner and got drunk instead of networking.”

 

“Are you drunk?” Porthos asks, grinning. 

 

“A little,” Athos admits.

 

“Right. Coffee, and water, and then you can parade me about and show off a real live example of the magic you can work.”

 

Athos smiles, taking Porthos’s real live example in, and Porthos pats him on the back, turning to the bar. He fills Athos with coffee and then slips away, leaving Athos to fend for himself despite his promise about parading. Athos wanders around talking to people, exchanging business cards, and bumps into Treville again. He passes on his agreement with Porthos about having Maxxie in a month or two and Treville bounces on the spot. Athos is about to go talk to the head of a charity he’s pretty sure does something to do with art when Porthos returns with a plate and a glass. He catches Athos’ arm with his free hand and pulls him over to a table. He serves Athos with a flourish, then grins, waiting. Athos looks at the plate. There’s a sandwich there, and some crisps, and a peeled and cut up apple. Athos takes a bite, wondering what he’s supposed to do. 

 

“Is it good? It’s got cheese, and pickle, and some salad. I went and found a kitcheny bit,” Porthos says.

 

“You just carry cheese and pickle about with you?” Athos asks, and Porthos laughs, sitting beside him. 

 

“Nah, popped to Tesco, didn’t I? It’s next door. Thought something to soak up that whiskey was a good idea and they’ve only got nibbles here. Eat up because I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to bring our own food to the super posh ball.”

 

Athos eats and it is a good sandwich. He asks Porthos why he didn’t just get a ready made sandwich,and Porthos wiggles his eyebrows, then admits to having the rest of the food stashed in his car for later because he’s always getting hungry. Athos considers that good practise and decides next time he’s going to bring a boot full to bursting with good things to eat. 

 

“I think I’m still a little tipsy,” Athos admits, imagining bringing the little gas camping stove he has at home, too, and setting up a kitchen in the boot of his car, like when he went camping as a kid. “My Mum used to make curries, right there in the car.”

 

“Eh? Right where in the car? How’d she do that, then?”

 

Athos explains and Porthos claps his hands, delighted with the idea of a mobile restaurant. He’s still encouraging Athos to get right on that when Treville comes and commandeers him to talk to some rich bugger wanting to hear about Treville’s work ‘from a more genuine perspective, you know?’. Porthos waves and follows Treville over. 

 

Athos finishes up his meal and dumps the plate, made of thick cardboard, in the recycling. He drains the glass of water and leaves that on the table. Then he takes a moment to plan his next schmooze. Porthos returns and falls into step as he makes his rounds and Athos shows off the suit. Porthos keeps on undoing the buttons and showing people the lining, the stitching, how well it moves on him, how comfy it is. He bends and wiggles and everyone laughs. One woman asks him to dance, to show her just how versatile the suit is, and they sail out onto the floor. 

 

Athos watches. He watches Porthos’ suit, to begin with, checking how the fabric moves for himself, seeing how it reacts to being put to that kind of treatment. Then he watches Porthos, his mind switching from fashion to something else. The light across Porthos’ cheek, the round of him, the grace of his movements, the easy way his body moves under his command. The way his trousers hug his thighs. The slide of his feet on the floor. The cut of the jacket over his broad shoulders. The soft, lovely center of him. Porthos catches him looking, as the song comes to an end, and Athos blushes as he makes his way over. 

 

“Will you dance, Athos? With me?” Porthos asks, making it through the crowd back to Athos. 

 

“I don’t really dance much,” Athos says. 

 

“You’ve got the waistcoat for it, though,” Porthos says. 

 

“What? What does that mean?” Athos asks. 

 

“Absolutely nothing,” Porthos says, taking Athos’ hand. “About as much as your answer did, eh?”

 

Athos concedes that his answer, neither affirming or denying, was a bit pathetic. By which time he’s on the dance floor. 

 

“Who’s leading?” he asks. 

 

“Dunno,” Porthos says, laughing. “I grew up a lady, so learnt both, and I bet you went to public school and did too.”

 

“True. We could both follow?” Athos says, setting Porthos laughing again. 

 

When the music starts, though, they don’t dance. Not properly, not a waltz or a tango. They move together, Porthos quick and easy, Athos stumbling a little. He catches the rhythm soon enough, and his feet find space between Porthos’s. Porthos holds him close, bodies tight against one another. Athos realises that their suits were both made by him, the fabric stitched together by his own hands, each piece of work his. Like he’s fused to Porthos. That he’s flush against Porthos’ skin, against his naked body. 

 

“Oh hello,” Porthos says, laughing. 

 

“Shit,” Athos says, embarrassed, trying to pull away. 

 

Porthos pulls him close and rubs his back, soothing him, though. He relaxes into it and his embarrassing half-erection goes away again. Porthos smiles, lips against Athos’ neck so Athos feels it. 

 

“Sorry,” Athos whispers. 

 

“Not a problem,” Porthos murmurs back. “I have a similar problem. Only, less obvious. There are still some benefits to having different genitalia.”

 

Athos laughs, surprised, and Porthos grins again, a quick little thing against Athos’ skin. They dance for a long time and when they stop Athos is hot and flushed but unable to stop smiling. He gives away business cards like candy, making the rounds again. He does it alone, this time. He finds Porthos with Treville, on his second time around the crowd, and approaches.

 

“Porthos, go on, go home,” he hears Treville say. 

 

“No, really, I’m fine, Cap,” Porthos says. 

 

“A headache will lead to a migraine and you’ll be useless. Just go. I’ve got this. Don’t you trust me?”

 

“Captain, how could you question it?” Porthos says. “Alright, alright, I’ll go. Text you when I’m home safe.”

 

“Porthos?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“I love you, yes?” Treville says. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos says, beaming. 

 

He catches sight of Athos hovering and jerks his head towards the door. Athos gets the idea and heads that way, going to collect his coat. He meets Porthos by the front, five minutes later, and Porthos grins at him. 

 

“Told him I’ve got a headache,” he says, taking Athos hand. “You got a car?”

 

“No, I walked. The shop’s close.”

 

“How on earth are we gonna put a kitchen in your boot if you don’t bring your car?” Porthos says, leading Athos towards the car park and a little blue Ford. 

 

“I don’t actually have a car at all,” Athos admits. “We’ll have to do it in your boot.”

 

Porthos laughs and opens his boot to reveal how small it is. Athos sighs and Porthos throws his arms around him, holding him tight, laughter puffing against his neck. 

 

“God, look how gorgeous you are? All this pale skin. I bet you get freckles. And your hair, Jesus, Athos, what you’ve done to me with this pony tail!”

 

“Are you going to take me somewhere, or are you going to take me here in the car park?” Athos says, and is rewarded with renewed huffs of laughter. “You looked beautiful tonight. Every inch of you.”

 

Porthos drives them to a small flat, two bedrooms. He tilts his head then grins and announces his flatmate’s out. His room is tiny, just a double bed and wardrobe, a small bedside cabinet covered in menus. Porthos pulls open the draw and rummages through string, pens, paper, letters, spoons, a lighter, and eventually comes up with a condom, lube, a cardboard box that when opened reveals a strap on, two dildos, a soft packer, a variety of vibrators. 

 

“You make me hot. You’re so nice to look at, and you move just lovely, and you’ve got that beautiful lip that turns so nice,” Porthos says, presses a thumb to Athos’ lips

 

Athos leans into it, smiling against it. 

 

“Go on,” Athos says.

 

“I think I’d like to…” Porthos trails off. “Let me show you?”

 

“Go ahead,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos undresses him, right down to his skin, fingers trailing over his body, murmuring little compliments as he goes. He seems to like the crease of Athos’ thigh, the tautness of his stomach, his hip. Porthos holds him by the hip for a moment, once he’s down to nothing, and then takes his hair out, letting it fall about his face. He holds Athos by the back of the neck, cradling, then kisses him. 

 

“Are you keeping all this on?” Athos asks. 

 

Porthos takes off the suit but keeps his vest and boxers on. His boxers have flamingos on and Athos laughs, tugging at the fabric. Porthos laughs too and then kisses Athos, stealing his laughter, his breath, his everything .Athos leans into him. 

 

“Let me me know where I can touch?” Athos asks. 

 

“Anywhere,” Porthos says. “I’ll say if I don’t want it.”

 

Athos runs his hands over the visible skin, to begin with, pausing at a scar on Porthos’ biceps, a slither of skin over his hip between his waistband and vest, the muscle above his knee. Then he tucks his hand under the vest, at Porthos’ back, and rests it there. Porthos doesn’t reject it so Athos pulls the vest up at the front, and presses a kiss to Porthos’ stomach, rolling the fabric of the vest up,  revealing more. 

 

“Bed,” Porthos says, pushing him backwards. 

 

They tangle together, Porthos’ mouth moving over Athos’ chest, down his stomach, over his thigh. Athos rocks his hips but Porthos stills him, holding him tight, not letting him move. Athos moans and pushes Porthos’ head, but Porthos just laughs, looking up at him, pressing kisses everywhere but where Athos wants them. 

 

“Can I do you?” Athos asks. 

 

Porthos shakes his head, and wraps a hand around Athos’ cock. Athos makes an embarrassing sound, almost a warble. Porthos laughs. He bring Athos off slowly, carefully, finding the spots Athos likes, the sensitive bits of skin. He gets excited about some freckles he finds and distracts himself, pausing to put on the harness, Athos helping him pick out a dildo, the straps dark against his brown skin, the beauty of him stunning Athos a moment. Eventually Athos has an orgasm, wet and sudden against Porthos’ hip, Porthos mouth over his. 

 

“Oh,” Porthos says, pulling back. “Aright?”

 

“Yeah,” Athos says, shuddering a bit with the aftermath. “Good. Mm. You?”

 

Porthos nods, resting against Athos, head against Athos’ shoulder. He’s pretty sure Porthos didn’t get off. He wonders if he should do something about it. He runs a hand down Porthos’ back, and Porthos shakes his head. 

 

“Don’t want anything,” Porthos whispers.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Stay the night?”

 

“Mm,” Athos agrees, settling in. 

 

Porthos snorts and goes to get a washcloth, dropping it unceremoniously and wetly onto Athos’ chest, in boxers and a soft packer now. A towel follows. Athos tries to be appreciative but he’s just sleepy really. Porthos at last crawls back into the bed and curls around Athos. 

 

“Don’t lie on me, if I end up on me back,” Porthos mumbles. “Still a bit sore.”

 

Athos makes a hopefully-positive sounding noise and drifts off. He’s warm and tired, a little drunk. He sleeps like the dead, not waking until the sun is shining bright through the curtains. Porthos is lying on his back, snoring like a chainsaw. Athos leaves him and gets up, finding his boxers and vest. He looks at his suit but decides if the roommate is in they’ll just have to put up with Athos’ state of undress. It’s far too hungover and early to be wearing formal trousers. 

 

He wanders into the kitchen and finds it occupied. Despite his thoughts about the roommate having to just put up with things he feels a frisson of embarrassment about his pants. He waves awkwardly when the roommate looks up. 

 

“Oh, um, morning?” 

 

“Good morning,” Athos says. “Uh, I’m Athos. Friend of Porthos’.”

 

“Oh. Oh!  _ Friend _ . I get you. Hi, wow. This is cool. Usually it’s my friends wandering about half naked! I’m never going to let him tease me again. I’m Sylvie. Actually, it’s just my girlfriend, she likes wandering around in her knickers.”

 

“Right,” Athos says. 

 

“Breakfast? I use gender neutral pronouns, by the way. Ze and zir.”

 

“Ze?” Athos asks. “Food would be good.”

 

He’s given toast, eggs, and intro to gender 101. He accepts it all and then writes out how ze/zir relates to other pronouns, to help him get his head around it. Sylvie asks him about his job and when ze realises he’s the one who made Porthos’ suit, ze relaxes a bit. 

 

“My girlfriend’s gone for pastries. We were out all night, she apparently needs sugar. She’ll be back soon, and don’t worry: she’s buying for Porthos, so there’ll be plenty. We knicked a tenner off the mantelpiece that he left there.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, not sure what to make of that. 

 

Sylvie laugh and waves his worry away, explaining that Porthos is terrible at money, is always borrowing it and lending it, and ze’s not entirely sure what is whose anymore. Athos accepts that and asks Sylvie about zir job. 

 

“I write,” ze says. “I do some work for Treville but only get a few hours there a week. I work with refugees, teaching English, and I write articles for whoever’ll pay me.”

 

Athos tries to think of something to say in response, Sylvie is bright and thrumming with energy. He’s saved by the girlfriend’s return. She calls out a greeting and comes through a moment later, carrying a box.

 

“Athos!” She says. 

 

“Constance?” he says. “You’re Sylvie’s girlfriend?”

 

“Um, yeah?” Constance says, looking suspicious. 

 

“Ze said you like going about in your knickers,” Athos blurts. 

 

Sylvie starts to laugh so ze can’t explain any better and Athos is too embarrassed to try opening his mouth again. Then Porthos comes in. He doesn’t notice anything, just gives Constance a kiss on the cheek and Sylvie a cuddle from behind and sits next to Athos, yawning hugely. 

 

“You’re still here. Good. Food? Coffee?” Porthos says. 

 

“Pastries,” Constance says, setting the box on the table. “You’ll have to get your own coffee and Athos what are you doing here?”

 

“Sleeping with Porthos,” Athos manages. “I mean no! Not sleeping… I did sleep.. I mean I slept! Slept. Snoring sleep. Not… though I guess we did…”

 

Thankfully, Porthos puts his hand over Athos’ mouth then, yawning again. 

 

“We had sex. I plan on having more,” Porthos says. “Put a thing of coffee on, would you, love? I’ll do you a proper roast lunch.”

 

“You’re terrible at cooking roasts,” Sylvie says. “But alright. Let Connie do the marinade and decide when the meat’s cooked, and you do the rest, and I’ll make you coffee.”

 

“Done,” Porthos says. “You want to stay for lunch, Athos?”

 

“Um, no thanks. I… I have work. Oh shit, I’m sat in my underwear in front of my employee,” Athos says. 

 

“Very nice,” Constance says. “At least they don’t have Spongebob on.”

 

Athos raises a questioning eyebrow and Constance nods to Porthos. Sure enough, he’s got Spongebob boxers, the flamingos exchanged. Athos smiles. He settles in to eat pastries, deciding Constance, like Sylvie, will just have to deal with his pants. Porthos kisses his cheek, and Athos flushes, smiling wider. Then he realises Porthos has just knicked the pastry from him while he was distracted by the kiss. 

 


End file.
